


When It's Daytime

by argylemikewheeler



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Angst, He's in love not sorry, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Third Person, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, basically heartache for 2k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 18:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20451572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylemikewheeler/pseuds/argylemikewheeler
Summary: Just another night in the forgotten Las Vegas suburbs from Boris' perspective. He's worried but he won't say it-- how can he? Grief is grief is grief; it's ordinary at best. Then again, Theo is anything but.[OR a black-out night Theo forgot to tell us about, but Boris remembered vividly]





	When It's Daytime

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this the only way I felt I could write Boris: delirious. I wanted to keep the narrative unpolished and as unrefined as I could. I felt like writing from Boris' perspective deserved a little "all write, little edit" energy.  
Thank you to [@lovehasleftyouhaunted](https://lovehasleftyouhaunted.tumblr.com/) for the prompt!  
And thank you for reading x

After a while, getting drunk (or any illegal variation there in) with Theo became less _ about _ getting stoned and more about the boy himself: endlessly awkward looking and notoriously a wreck. The responsibility was almost welcome after a while. Knowing that Theo was one strong swig away from becoming a liability left _ only _to Boris slowly became flattering. Then of course, the actual experience of being high-- weightless and sleepy but with enough ideas to have him stumbling and waving around like a philosopher dictating to his eager protégé-- was improved by Theo's presence.

It sounded weirder if Boris tried to explain it to anyone else. Hell, it was weird if he tried to assign any words to it, even if it was just in his own silent mind. It was better staying a mere feeling, full and swelling.

But of course it wouldn't go nameless. There _ was _ a name for it. He wasn't at liberty to say it but he knew what it was. He hadn't grown up with a whole lot of it but dear fucking _god_ he knew it when it struck him.

Like that _ one _ good strike-- stroke, perhaps-- of lightning: the trees spark up a shadow, time jumps in surprise, and entire earth blinks for you. It's only _ then _that it hits Boris. When he wants to mumble the words, in any language they'd appear in. When he grabbed onto Theo's shirt, making sure when the lights snapped back out, he wouldn't lose him. It felt like the most selfish time to think of it-- eyebrows so tightly knitted together he could barely see and body so tightly wound he was ready to snap in Theo's hands.

But then he would open his eyes, and he'd be wordless all over again.

See, Boris had gotten in the habit of making sure he was looking only at Theo whenever their drug of choice announced its presence in their bloodstream. When all the layers of his vision would sink together onto the same sheet, and Boris would try to blink some depth perception back into it, Theo would be able to hold the center. His eyes would dilate the exact peaked and pale shades of Theo's face. It would seem like Boris' eyesight was carved to only fit around the gentle, obnoxiously naively and sweetly round face of one Theo Decker.

Looking away was like trying to put an old Christmas ornament into its plastic case upside down or backwards. None of the formations cradled the delicate, cherished memory properly. Boris could only look at his own hands, or even the sky, for so long before he'd turn the ornament again and settle into the comfort.

Even pouring ridiculous amounts of alcohol into and over his brain, Theo made sense. He fit. He nestled against the imaginary cradle of Boris' flat and graying world.

He knew how to explain it-- _ maybe _\-- and knew the word. It was only four letters. There were far worse offenses, but Boris had never thought of speaking such atrocities aloud. Being heard had been a desire at one point, but now that it was no longer a demand-- Theo doing it freely and almost obediently-- Boris wanted to preserve it. He wanted to keep every word like a small bit of change, hoping to make Theo the richest man. A small payback, maybe. If it could be considered as such.

Boris was staring at Theo, the bedroom walls darkening as if the film strip had overheated, and soaking Theo in. It was like standing by a pool at night, staring into the well lit water and feeling the waves' exhale as it lapped against the side. Theo reminded Boris of breathing-- and ebb and flow, a constant rising and falling, a discovery and a repression. The only thing that mattered was Theo, at least to his eyes. They were talking about something else-- a poem perhaps-- but Boris had left it behind as he tried to inch closer to him.

Theo had also left something behind; his state of consciousness. He was far too blasted to be reaching for another sip of vodka and Boris, genuinely and impulsively, refused him. He was moving far more loosely than he ever did coherently. His brain moved his body easier when it wasn't concerned with remembering anything about it.

"Had too much to drink. You have reached your limit, Potter."

"Fuck you".

"No negotiations. We enjoy the high, but no more." Boris wasn't the law by any stretch of the imagination, but he could sense Theo's uneasiness. He wasn't as happy to be staring at Boris, or looking at anyone at all. It hurt, sure, but it mostly meant he was not registering where he was looking. Boris could have been _ anyone _to Theo then. And maybe he was.

"Let's go outside. Boris, I want to go outside. The moon is so bright. It’s our own street light, come on. Boris. Come _ on _."

"Why don't we stay inside. Yes, stay inside." He decided.

Theo on the street meant another round of _ leave me Boris, leave me _ . And in the dark, Boris' eyes could never settle over his face the same way. It felt uncomfortable and wrong to have such a change of scenery around Theo. He could barely see him and the darkness would always part too easy, like hanging streamers. Boris would stumble and call out to the comfort that Theo kept close to his chest. His face would be stoic and long-- wistfully begging to be run over or to _ let me jump! I can make the pool! _

It wasn't anything concerning; Theo was having fun! But there was a terrifying reminder every time Boris would sober, even during a blink, when he remembered dead meant _ dead _. And Theo wasn't just asking for private time, he wanted to be beyond reach.

Theo was asking Boris to leave him alone-- practically assist at that point--in his own suicide. Although, that wasn't the word he would've used had he been conscious enough to ask for Boris' help. Self-actualization, maybe. Yeah, that would seem skewed enough, seem balanced enough for sober Theo to accept in another stream of blackened memories he’d only lived through physically. They'd chew it over between mouthfuls of chips and gulps of separate bottles-- and then later the same breath.

Self-actualization. That was_ never _ the word that wanted to come out of the strained muttering between them. When he had Theo by the back of the neck, holding his forehead against his own and refraining-- always refraining.

There was nothing actualized. They were both frauds, “_ -aholics, Potter” _ in one way or another. Trying to find a further and further low to have the evidence that groping and pawing at each other was in no way the worst of their crimes. Somehow the drugs never felt as good, so of course it couldn't have been as bad.

There was nothing actualized in digging the same plot over and over, hoping to rebury a body further down and hope no one would find it.

"I'm going outside. You can't stop me." Theo spoke beyond his age and authority. His tongue became looser the more Boris tried to calm it-- in verbal warnings only, of course.

“No, we haven’t finished the movie.” It had only occurred to Boris, in his dire need of a distraction, that they were in fact watching a movie. They had been doing something together, but neither or their minds wanted to participate in the closeness-- the veiled threat of intimacy. His own mind, and obviously Theo’s, had embarked on their own adventures while the black and white darting shadows of the film splashed across their faces.

He chased Theo out the door. Blinking was slow, and moving constantly felt like he was trying to perform some kind of poofy dance move. He felt like he was scrambling through mud, his arms pushing imaginary obstacles aside as he reached for the back of Theo’s shirt. He always slipped away far too easily. As Boris reached the sidewalk, he realized then he wasn’t wearing shoes. His bare feet caught and drug over the uneven cement, roughing up his toenails and grating his skin.

Luckily, Theo had stopped.

“What? What is wrong?” Boris asked, hoping to blink the smudges out of his vision.

“Everything feels closer when it’s dark. Almost like we’re stuck under a microscope.” Theo said offhandedly.

He blinked out into the vast, but familiar, desert. Boris wasn’t sure what he was seeing, but it seemed to be hanging in front of his nose. Boris had thoughts like that too, ones that would close in as the hours thinned back to single digits. Hopefully by then, he’d had an equal amount of shots and could forget the beginnings of all his troubling sentences.

“I feel like no one dies at night.” He continued. “Only during the day. While you’re watching it happen. Sure, we can all _ die _ at night, but that’s never when it happens. When it really hits.”

“You miss her, yes?”

Theo blinked, still looking ahead. “New York was constantly daytime.”

“And so is Vegas! Lights, living everywhere-- nobody dies here!” Boris cried, waving his arms around. He stumbled back and nearly took out the mailbox. He leaned on it as if it was planned, sticking his point. “Potter, come on, stop being sad sack. We finish the movie!”

Truthfully, sometimes Theo’s mood swings did scare Boris. How was he supposed to know when he was being irritatingly vapid and faux-pretentious now that he could see six new colors unknown to the human race, or genuinely reaching the break down when his brain would start to spit up philosophy like blood into a toilet.

“I want to get in bed, I think.” Theo’s suggestion was surprisingly coherent and ideal. Being vertical was growing exhausting to Boris too. “I’m really tired. Kinda hungry too, but I don’t think we have any other food in the house. We should just sleep.”

"Agreed.” Boris reached his hand out to catch Theo’s shirt as he passed.

There was no explanation of what Theo wanted outside and Boris didn’t want one. Maybe he had gotten a bit overheated and needed air, or maybe he had started his own unfinished plan to start running, forgetting that eventually he’d have to stop.

Instead of running, thankfully, Theo followed Boris’ tugging persuasion and walked right into his room and into his bed; jeans still on and shirt only half hiked up his torso. He flopped face down, turning his head to breathe after a muffled sigh.

“Fuck.” He grumbled.

“Yeah.” Boris agreed, pulling his shirt up and over his head. He clambered into bed as steadily as he could, just trying to get his vision fitted again. The world flattened just as he flopped onto his stomach, admitting to Theo, aware or not, that he finally wanted to be close to him that night. He wasn’t going to drift.

He was looking but wasn’t searching-- not anywhere but Theo’s very puzzled expression at least.

“They always said to hear it-- the death, I mean-- in the sunshine. But they’re wrong. That just _ ruins _the day-- the feeling of normalcy becomes a countdown or something… and then when it’s dark, you are just waiting to hear more bad news.” Theo spouted, twisting to lie flat on his back. His arm was stretched up to the headboard, reaching for something-- but stopping half-way through his thoughts. “I wonder what I’ll hear tomorrow.”

“Nothing. Sometimes, life is boring, Potter. Come on, don’t do this. You were having a good time-- told that awful snake joke again! So long, so _ fucking _long. Get to sleep. Tomorrow, we pool money and feast like kings. Whatever you want, we get.”

“Okay. Fine.”

There was no way to show relief without smiling at Theo’s corpse-like resignation. Instead, the two stared at each other, probably too long to be considered nothing-- for the silence to just be empty. Theo blinked at Boris through his glasses, now properly smudged and wonky from pressing against the pillow. His nostrils flared in a long inhale, his face unchanged and slack. His lips were chapped and his hair was matted around his ears. But he kept blinking, kept looking right at Boris.

Boris would never be able to say what it was about Theo’s face that made his pulling and tightening vision feel so settled. Maybe it was _ all _ of it. Maybe it wasn’t one detail or one flaw or perfected ratio. It might have just been the whole cohesive blur of it all. That mouth or those eyes would mean nothing if not connected to the words that came out of it or the things they looked at-- longed for. Theo was an entity to be held together, to be held _ closely _.

Not that Boris could ever do that. There were times and reasons to do it _ once _ of course, but it wasn’t meant to be commonplace. A crime was a crime because it wasn’t routine, it was a push against the natural, structured order of things.

Then again, Boris was a criminal in many ways.

“Don’t think too much right now, Potter. Let’s sleep.” In his infinite dash for prison and banishment, Boris placed a hand on Theo’s shoulder.

Theo looked away, his lips pressing together. Boris’ vision crumpled, like a piece of paper he’d never be able to lay flat again. His hand was pushed away.

“I’m going to go throw up.” He said, pushing the covers back sharply. “Leave me alone.”

It was a variation, but an echo of the same sentiment:

_ Leave me, Boris, leave me _.

Self-destruction was better in groups, but more effective alone. Theo was repeatedly trying to strike a match by a gas pump-- as if _ just _ to see how it’d feel. Boris knew, and maybe not to the extent that Theo did, how dangerous numbness was. He’d sooner cut his own hand off to “see if it hurt” before he admitted that everything seemed to be broken-- even the things he couldn’t see. _ Mostly _the things he couldn’t. Boris wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do; sharpen the knife or hide it behind his back and feign confusion. Or maybe offer his own arm instead.

Boris rolled over in bed, knowing that one day, he would leave-- one of them would. There was no need to wonder-- he already knew-- how _ no Boris, stay! _ would sound. He heard it in his dreams, in the ringing silence of a clanging hangover, in his own scratchy morning voice, in Theo’s quiet _ good night _ when he finally returned to bed.

Death happened in the daytime, but goodbyes seemed to be more permanent at night.


End file.
